


Another Pint of AB+

by brickhousewriter



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Blood, Finch being Finch, First Season, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Reese being Reese, Violence, Whump!Reese
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-05
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-18 06:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1418372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brickhousewriter/pseuds/brickhousewriter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The story of how Finch gets Reese to a doctor after he's shot in the first season episode 1.10 Number Crunch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written in December 2012, after the mid-season cliffhanger during the first season. When they gut-shot Reese, and then expected us to wait _four weeks_ to find out if he was OK.
> 
> It was torture.
> 
> My Muse couldn’t wait that long. And I wrote my first fanfiction in over a decade. This story is technically an AU, because when they aired 1.11 Super, it Jossed my entire story. And I wasn't rewriting it to match canon. 
> 
> And DrifterSkip still gets a shoutout and thanks for being my Beta. This story previously appeared on Live Journal. I’ve been meaning to move it over here for months now.

“Talk to me Mr. Reese.”

After Detective Carter had helped ease Reese into the back seat of the town car and tersely ordered him to “Go.” Finch’s only thought had been putting distance between him and whoever had caused that spreading crimson stain across Reese’s shirt. They’d driven several blocks and he’d doubled back once already, in case anyone was following them. Now it was time to settle on a destination. Before he could do that, he needed to know Reese’s status. While he waited for an answer, he replayed their conversation over in his head, looking for clues.

_“Hey Harold.”_

_“John, I’ve been trying to call you.”_

_“Yeah, well, I’ve been kinda busy.”_ What the hell had Reese been up to while they were out of contact?

_“Where are you?”_

_“In a parking structure. It’s not looking good.”_ Not looking good? What exactly did that mean?

_“Carter sold you out. They got to her.”_

_“Yeah, they’re clever like that. I wanted to say ‘Thank You,’ Harold. For giving me a second chance.”_ It wasn’t like Reese to thank him. And there had been something frighteningly final about the way he said it.

_“It’s not over John. I’m close. Just get to the ground floor.”_

_“No. You stay away. We can’t risk it.”_

“I need to know how badly you’re hurt, Mr. Reese.” Now that they were safely away, he resumed the comfortable barrier of formality that he used with all his employees.

“Bad enough.” He heard a slight gasp, as if something had hurt him. “I told you it wasn’t looking good.”

Finch ran through his mental Rolodex. He considered all of the doctors he had ever visited, met, or researched, where they might be at this hour, and their ability to either keep quiet or be bribed. Finch checked the map on the in-dash GPS, then took a hard right. “Dr. Tillman owes us a favor.” 

“No, Finch. There’s still a bullet in my gut. I don’t just need a doctor, I need a hospital, surgery. We can’t involve Tillman. They’d ask too many questions.” 

Finch switched his mental searching from “doctor” to “surgeon” and kept driving. He took a hard left, and Finch watched the figure in the back seat slump over as the car careened around the corner.

“John?” Just how bad was it to be shot in the stomach? Finch didn’t know. He’d never been shot before. He didn’t know anyone who had ever been shot. Other than Reese. 

The voice from the back seat was patient, as if speaking to a child. “Here’s what’s going to happen Finch. I’m bleeding into my gut. I’m starting to go into shock. You need to get me to a hospital.”

“I’m trying.” Finch racked his brain for a place they could go where a gunshot wound wouldn’t lead to awkward questions. Or the arrival of the police. Reese was no good to him in jail. Finch shook himself. Reese would be even less good to him dead. 

“Listen to me!” Reese was quiet, but forceful, as always. “I don’t have any known allergies. My blood type is AB+, which means I can accept any type of blood. Finch, you’re going to need to know this.”

“I know, Mr. Reese. I’ve read your file.” He said absently, because just then a name had occurred to him. Finch suddenly flipped a completely illegal U-turn. As the tires squealed in protest, he said, “Hang in there Mr. Reese, I know just the person to help us.” And the car surged forward as he stomped on the gas.

*****

Reese was flickering in and out of consciousness when he felt the town car slow. He struggled upright and when Finch took the last turn a little too fast, it threw him up against the window. As the big Lincoln bumped over the curb, his eyes snapped open and he looked around, habitually scanning the immediate area for threats. 

They were in the back parking lot of a building, empty except for a light colored SUV and a hearse. There was a woman coming towards them. Her hand slid her coat back in a movement Reese himself had made a thousand times. Whoever she was, she was packing heat. Where was his own gun? He tried to remember…. He’d managed to hang on to it when he made his way down the stairs in the parking garage after that motherfucker Snow had shot him. He must have dropped it when he stumbled down the curb. He still couldn’t believe that Finch had managed to catch him before he fell. He’d gotten into the bad habit of thinking of the stiff little man as a cripple. He really needed to stop that, as Finch had repeatedly proved he was more physically capable that he liked to let on.

He caught the woman glancing over her shoulder as she approached the car. And a quick military hand signal behind her back that said, “Take cover.” Reese scanned the shadows while Finch rolled down the window. There, at the corner of the building, just the flicker of movement in the shadows. So she had backup. Whoever the hell she was, Reese approved of this woman. 

“Doctor Brooks.” Even in an emergency, Finch _would_ have to be formal.

She came closer and leaned over to peer in the window. “Mr. Finch?” Reese caught another small hand signal, still out of Finch’s field of vision. This time it was “Move out.” She’d released her spotter. So she knew Finch and didn’t think he was a threat. Reese checked the shadows again but the dark figure had already disappeared.

“I was just headed home. What brings you to this neighborhood? Anything that can wait until morning?” She was pleasant, casual. But that hand still rested on the back of her hip, near the gun Reese was positive was tucked in the back of her waistband.

“Miss Brooks, I’m afraid that this isn’t a social call. I need your help. Or more accurately, my friend needs your help.” And Finch stiffly turned his body to indicate the back seat. 

“What happened?” The back door opened suddenly and Reese did his best not to fall out onto the pavement. The woman caught him and eased him back against the seat. Reese didn’t have the energy to answer her as she stared at him. She reached out and twitched his suit jacket open, then sucked in her breath.

“He’s bleeding.” It was a statement, not a question. But Finch answered her.

“He was shot. At least twice. Once in the abdomen, once in the leg.”

“That explains why he’s got his belt tied around his leg.” Her fingers didn’t probe the wound, and Reese was grateful for small favors. His vision was going grey around the edges. If she’d prodded, he was sure he would have passed out. 

Her fingers slid up the side of his throat, then paused. He could feel his pulse beating against her fingers. He counted along with her, and didn’t like the result any more than she did. He was starting to feel cold.

“This man needs a hospital.”

“I know. But we also need _discretion_.” Finch put special emphasis on the last word. “Which is why I brought him to you. I’m afraid I’m going to need to impose on your hospitality again Dr. Brooks.”

“Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.” She fumbled for the cell phone in her pocket and punched in a number. “Jonesie? Get your ass back here, NOW.” Reese recognized Command Voice when he heard it. “I’ve got a Code Blue, Omega Protocol. And call Ramirez, we’re going to need him too. Tell him there’s a bonus in it if he can get here in the next fifteen minutes. I say again, Code Blue, Omega Protocol.” She hung up the phone and stuck it back in her pocket. 

Reese must have faded out for a few seconds, because the next thing he knew, Finch and the woman were hauling him out of the back seat and helping him onto a gurney. Once he was settled, he heard the woman start ordering Finch around. “You’re going to have to get the doors for me.” And he was rolling quickly across the pavement. Doors were banging open behind his head. 

Reese was in and out of consciousness. Someone was shining a light in first one eye, then the other. He struggled to open his eyes, but there was a bright light overhead. “Mr. Reese? I’m Dr. Brooks. You’re going to be just fine.” Reese knew she was lying, but appreciated that the lie was mostly for Finch’s benefit. “Finch. Come here. Put pressure on this.” Even the light touch made pain bloom across his middle. He groaned. “I said pressure! Don’t worry about hurting him, just hold it tight!” The pressure increased and then everything went black.

*****

“Dr. Brooks, I’m afraid our patient has passed out.” Finch wasn’t sure how concerned he should be about that. Surely being shot in the abdomen was painful? While being unconscious was probably a blessing, it also meant that Reese’s condition could be more serious than Finch had originally thought.

“Damn. Keep the pressure on.” The doctor warned as she pulled off the Army surplus field jacket she was wearing and tossed it over a chair, revealing a simple black turtleneck and black trousers. “How long ago did this happen?”

How long had it really been since Reese had re-opened their communications link? Finch glanced at his watch, surprised. Surely it had been longer than that? “Less than half an hour ago.” Finch leaned over Reese, keeping firm pressure against his abdomen while Dr. Brooks pulled supplies out of cabinets lining the walls of the room. He noticed the holstered handgun clipped to the back of her trousers as she opened and slammed cabinets. He’d forgotten that between the gang bangers and the addicts looking for drugs in this neighborhood, she was habitually armed. Another point in favor of his choice of Dr. Brooks to deal with his partner’s wounds. She pulled out a few more trays and boxes, then opened a small refrigerator. “Do you know his blood type?” 

“AB positive.” He’d have known even if Reese hadn’t told him in the car. Finch had memorized Reese’s medical file, in preparation for just this sort of situation. 

Dr. Brooks rifled through the plastic packets. “Damn, I’m out. O-Neg it is then.” She grabbed a pint and hung it on an I.V. stand, then wheeled it over to the gurney. “You’re going to have to help until my nurse gets back here. We need to get him out of these clothes.” Finch helped her sit Reese up, and held him as she manhandled him out of his suit jacket. Then she grabbed a pair of blunt nose scissors and cut straight down the back of his shirt, from collar to hem, and neatly stripped it off him and tossed it in a hamper in the corner. She handed the scissors to Finch. “Cut off his pants. They’re already ruined. ” Finch stared at the scissors in his hands, not quite sure how to begin removing Reese’s trousers. The doctor went to work loosening the belt strapped around his thigh. So that explained that little cry of pain he’d heard from the back seat.

As the leather loosened and blood welled from the wound again, she murmured to herself, “Well, Mr. Reese, you may just have saved your own life with that trick.” She waved a hand, and Finch handed her the scissors. In a few seconds she was handing him the remains of Reese’s black trousers. Finch took a few stiff steps and deposited the bloodstained rags in the hamper. He felt a bit queasy at how damp the fabric was. How much blood had Reese lost? 

“Mr. Finch?” The doctor summoned him back and he obeyed. She grabbed both of his hands and put them where she wanted them. “ _Tight_. Don’t let go until I tell you to.” And Finch found himself cradling both sides of his partner’s right thigh, applying steady pressure to two large pads that she’d placed over the entrance and exit wounds.

The doctor was at the sink, vigorously scrubbing her hands. Once she was gloved up, she quickly threaded an I.V. needle into her patient’s now naked arm and started a more thorough examination of his injuries, while peppering Finch with questions about her new patient.

“Allergies?” 

“None.” 

“You sure?” She eyed Finch. He supposed he deserved that, he’d probably been more reserved in his past dealings with the good doctor than he should have.

“He told me so himself, on the drive here.” 

“Any medications?”

“None that I’m aware of.”

Just then a large black man appeared in the doorway. Dr. Brooks looked up, “Jonesie, what the hell took you so long?” There was no anger in her tone, just a question.

“Just my luck, there was a train waiting in the station. We were pulling out when I got your call. Got off at the next stop, but I still had to wait for a ride back.” He stripped off his coat and tossed it on top of hers. “What do we have?” he asked curiously as he came to stand beside her, looking over her shoulder. 

“White male, early 40s, gunshot wounds to the abdomen and leg. Pulse is thready. Looks like the thigh’s a through and through, but we’re going to have to go spelunking in his gut for the other one.”

“Yeah, can’t say that I like the looks of him.” He muttered, “There’s white guys and then there’s _white_ guys.” Finch looked over the doctor’s hands at Reese’s pale face. His skin was glistening with sweat. “Yo, Finch, where’d you dig this guy up?”

“Good to see you too, Nurse Jones.” Finch said primly. He’d forgotten how chatty Dr. Brooks’ head nurse could be. 

Finch was relieved when their anesthesiologist arrived right on Nurse Jones’ heels. Finch kept pressure on Reese’s thigh while they prepped Reese for surgery. Finally Nurse Jones relieved him of his position, checking the wound, and then strapping it tight again until they’d finished removing the bullet and had time to tend to Reese’s less life threatening injuries.

Finch washed the blood off his hands in the sink, then stood in the corner, feeling a bit helpless. He felt like he should be doing something. He’d delivered Mr. Reese to one of the most experienced trauma surgical teams in the city. Dr. Brooks and Nurse Jones had been working together for years, first in the military, then at City Hospital, and now at the doctor’s clinic. He had to trust them to do their jobs.

Finch didn’t know much about Dr. Ramirez’s background, as he’d only joined the clinic staff in the past couple of months, and Finch had been too busy with Reese and their numbers to properly investigate him yet. But Finch had utter faith in Dr. Katherine Brooks and her ability to find the best people. Now all there was to do was wait. Mr. Finch was sure they’d completely forgotten about him, until he heard the doctor say, “Mr. Finch, you don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here.”

“Is he going to die?” Finch didn’t realize how badly he’d wanted to ask the question until it had already slipped out of his mouth.

“Not if I can help it,” the doctor snapped. Then she reconsidered her tone and said in a gentler voice, “He’s in good hands Harold. There’s nothing more you can do. Leave me your number and I promise to call you when he’s out of surgery. Now get the hell out of my operating room.”

Finch knew an order when he heard one. “Yes ma’am.” He found some paper in a drawer and scribbled the number for her, then limped towards the door. 

“Finch? If you’re going to stay, bottom left desk drawer in my office. There’s a bottle of Glenmorangie.” And she turned back to her work.

Finch walked slowly from the room. Yes, a drink might be just the thing. He made his way down the hallway to the doctor’s office at the back of the building, where he found the bottle and a pair of glasses, right where she said they’d be.

Finch poured himself two fingers of the whiskey, and considered downing it all in one gulp. But he hadn’t eaten, and he knew that would be a mistake. Instead he cradled the glass in his hands and sipped it slowly. Giving himself time to think.

He’d told Reese when he first hired him that sooner or later they would probably both wind up dead. But that didn’t mean Finch wasn’t doing everything in his power to make sure that their deaths came “later” rather than “sooner.” Although he hadn’t planned on Reese getting himself seriously injured quite so soon. Otherwise it wouldn’t have taken him so long to remember Dr. Brooks and her clinic. He knew that funding her clinic would eventually pay benefits.

As the alcohol burned off the last of the adrenaline in his system, Finch realized he was utterly exhausted. There was nothing more he could do here. He put down the glass and limped out the door.

*****

The MP3 player had cycled through her entire Classical Hits CD and all of Yo-Yo Ma’s soundtrack for _Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon_ before Dr. Brooks was satisfied that she’ d found every bullet fragment and secured every last bleeder in her patient’s gut. What was bothering her, as she made a neat row of stitches to close up the surgical site, was that this clearly was not the first time her mysterious patient had been under the knife. His gallbladder was missing, and there were other traces that indicated at least one prior abdominal surgery. The minimal amount of scarring spoke to a neat hand. She looked down at her petite gloved hands as she tied off the last suture. Then, curious, she peeked over Ramirez’s drape to study her patient’s face under the oxygen mask. 

That sleek haircut was just a little too short for a businessman, it simply reeked of ex-military. Former soldiers tended to complain that their hair was too getting long once it reached a length that most people would still consider short. Had he been one of her patients in the Gulf? It was hard to tell, all soldiers tended to look alike to her. They were always impossibly young. The high-and-tight military haircut made everyone’s ears look bigger than they were. They were almost always bloody, broken, and scared when she met them. And when they left they were either cocky and boastful, or embarrassingly grateful to her for saving their lives. Had she put this man together once before? She couldn’t be sure.

“Who is this guy doc?” Now that the crisis was past the questions would come while they cleaned up.

“I have no idea.” She shrugged as she helped Jonesie sort out the instruments that needed to be autoclaved from the disposable items that were now medical waste. “Friend of a friend. I didn’t ask.” She knew both Jones and Ramirez recognized Mr. Finch as one of the benefactors of the clinic. “And you won’t ask either. He’s a friend of Finch. That’s all we need to know.”

They nodded and went back to tidying up. The three of them worked together quickly until the surgical suite was spotless and all evidence of their visitor had been disposed of. Then they tucked a sheet and a heavy blanket around their patient and wheeled him into the parking lot. She’d lost track of time while they’d been operating, but was grateful to find that it was the dark of the night when they got outside. That would make it easier to transport their patient without anyone seeing him. 

“Take the hearse,” she ordered, and they wheeled the gurney towards to the vintage hearse she kept in the back parking lot. The long black car came in handy for transporting bodies to the city morgue when she couldn’t save a patient, and had been cheaper than buying an actual ambulance for the few instances when she needed to transport the still living. 

“I have to make a call. Can you two get him to my place? Third floor bedroom. And remember, Omega Protocol with this one.” Omega Protocol was their code for patients who did not officially exist if anyone asked. 

“I’ll lock up.” And she retraced her steps to the clinic. 

Back in her office she fished a clean flash drive out of a drawer, downloaded the last several hours of surveillance footage, and then erased it from the security hard drives. She slipped the flash drive in her pocket. She trusted Finch, but she knew nothing about her mysterious patient. It wouldn’t hurt to have a little information tucked away. Then she pulled out her cell phone and dialed the number Finch had left her.

She heard a phone ring down the hallway. She stood up and followed the sound. Two doors down, she heard muffled sounds. “Yes Dr. Brooks?” She heard Finch’s voice from two directions: from the phone in her hand and from behind the door in front of her.

She hung up the phone and opened the examining room door. “Harold. What are you still doing here?”

Finch was struggling to sit up, one hand still clutching his phone. She rushed to his side and helped him. “Mr. Reese. How is he?” 

“He’ll live.” At the moment she was less worried about her surgical patient, safely sedated, than she was about Finch, who had surely aggravated his fused spine by spending the night sleeping on an examining room table.

Dr. Brooks noted that Finch couldn’t quite conceal his relief. “Where is he? I’d like to see him.”

“He’s gone. The boys are moving him to my townhouse. Your old room.” She pulled up a chair and sat next to the examining table, hoping that the professional pose would help reinforce what she was about to say to her patient. She put a hand on Finch’s knee, to get his attention. “Brenda tells me that you’ve missed two out of your last six massage therapy appointments.”

“I’ve been… busy.” He didn’t meet her eyes. 

“Mr. Finch, we’ve discussed this before. You have to keep up with your physical therapy if you want to keep making progress on your recovery.” It was a miracle that he’d been able to walk again after his injuries. She wasn’t going to let him lose the progress that he’d made. 

“Dr. Brooks, I do my exercises, twice a day. Religiously.” This time he did meet her eyes. And she could see that he was telling her the truth.

“Alright. But I don’t want to hear that you’re missing your appointments. No excuses.” And she shook a finger at him. She couldn’t help but feel protective towards him. Not after all those months of hiding him in her home from whoever wanted him dead. “Anything else you can tell me about our patient?” If Finch was still a mystery to her, Reese was even more so. “Like, for example, his name?”

“John Reese.”

“Anything else?”

“Medically? Not really. There’s not much to tell.”

“He’s ex-military, I can guess that much from his scars. What kind of trouble is he in?”

“I’d rather not say.” Typical Finch. Still reserved, even after all the time they’d known each other. 

“Mr. Finch, I need to know who wants him dead if I’m going to keep him alive. The mob? Drug dealers? Gangs? NYPD? The Feds? Who do I need to watch out for?”

“All of the above.” She shot him a look. Seriously? “But mostly the CIA.”

“Men in black. Alrighty then.” Dr. Brooks considered the implications of that. She’d had a few dealings with Agency boys while she was in the Gulf. She hoped she could avoid dealing with them again.

She helped Finch down from the examining table and into his coat. As they walked down the hall towards the back entrance, he spoke again. “Dr. Brooks, Mr. Reese can be a… _dangerous_ man. You might want consider some means of restraining him. For your own safety.”

“Thank you, Mr. Finch, I’ll take that under advisement.” She wondered about that. If he was so dangerous, what the hell was Finch doing with him? 

After she walked him to his car, she returned to the clinic. Where she sorted through the restraints that they kept on hand for those addicts who arrived tripping so badly they presented a danger to themselves. She picked through the collection of leather cuffs, trying to remember the size of her patient’s hands. They’d been big, but then again, he was a tall man. She didn’t think they were disproportionate. Finally she made a choice and inspected the padding for worn spots, the leather for weakness. Being restrained tended to piss people off. It wouldn’t do to have a buckle fail under the strain of being tested. Finally satisfied with her choice, she turned towards the door.

She paused in front of the pharmacy cabinet and considered the neat rows of small glass vials. She thought about the sort of man who made a career out of being a hired gun. About his probable reaction to coming out of anesthesia in a strange place. About the delicate work she’d just done repairing the damage done to him, and how easy it would be to undo if he struggled against the restraints. She considered the various options for keeping her patient in bed until his body had begun to reknit all the tissues that the bullets had torn through that night. 

She unlocked the cabinet, checked the labels, then slipped one of the vials into her pocket before carefully relocking the case.

*****

When she got home, Dr. Brooks stood in the doorway, considering her new patient. Jonesie and Ramirez had brought him up to the third floor guest bedroom, the one she’d had kitted out as a hospital room while Mr. Finch was recuperating with her. She’d only used the room occasionally since then. Usually when she was helping a fellow veteran get clean again. But this was the first time in almost a year that this room had had an occupant.

She dropped her bag on the chair and approached the bed. Mr. Finch said that he was a dangerous man. He didn’t look particularly dangerous right now. But then again, even the most dangerous man tended to look innocent when they were sleeping. She checked the IV line and the history on the monitors, then perched beside him on the bed. She picked up his hand and held it. It felt warm and solid between hers. “I can tell you’re a fighter, Mr. Reese. I’ve seen the evidence of that with my own eyes. I think our Mr. Finch would like you to stay with us. And I find losing a patient to be…distressing.” She sat, holding her patient’s hand, and watching the hypnotic blip of the monitor for a very long time.

She finally shook herself and looked down at the hand she was holding; there was dried blood on it. She fetched a damp wash cloth from the bathroom and spent a few minutes cleaning his hands. Then, remembering the sheen of sweat on his face when he arrived, she rinsed the cloth out and sponged down his face and neck. As she turned his head, she noticed something. She tilted his head for a closer look, then carefully fished something out of her patient’s ear. She looked at the small device in the palm of her hand. 

“Who are you Mr. Reese? And who were you communicating with over this?” She put the ear bud near her ear, but couldn’t hear anything. She sat beside him again, thinking about what little she knew about him. Finch said the CIA was hunting him. He’d arrived at the clinic in the dark of night, with a high-caliber bullet in him. Who had shot him, and why? She couldn’t quite put her finger on why she thought so, but she was sure he was ex-military. And he’d arrived with Finch. _What_ was the secretive billionaire doing with this man? And why, out of all the surgeons in the city of New York, had Finch brought this man to her?

She inspected the small device carefully, before retrieving her bag, fishing out a large manila envelope, and dropping the ear bud in with her patient’s wallet and cell phone. She opened the top drawer of the bedside table and deposited her patient’s personal effects into it.

She pushed the La-Z-Boy closer to the bed, then went and grabbed a pillow and blanket from her bedroom. As she wrapped the blanket around herself and settled in to wait for the anesthetic to wear off.

Hours later, she woke up to the smell of coffee and pain from a horribly stiff neck. 

“Morning, doc, I brought you coffee.” Nurse Jones was waving a cardboard cup under her nose.

She snatched it out of his hand, took a swig, then sighed in pleasure. “You’re too good to me, Tony.” 

He chucked off his coat. “Don’t I know it doc. But Paula says if you keep me out past my bedtime again without calling her, she’s taking you off the Christmas card list.” 

“I’ll take my chances.” She laughed, and took another gulp of the coffee before heading into the bathroom.

“He’s looking better this morning.” Jonesie murmured to himself as he checked Reese’s pulse and checked the IV lines. “Yo Katherine,” he called, turning towards the closed bathroom door, “Looks like our boy may be waking up.” 

Katherine dried her hands, and came out to sit on the side of the bed. She watched the eyelids flutter before they stayed open. Her patient regarded her with a glassy stare. “How are you feeling today, Mr. Reese?” 

The punch caught her completely by surprise and sent her sprawling across the floor. She shook her head to clear it, and saw Jonesie tackling her patient as he started to climb out of the bed. Her nurse had both arms wrapped around their patient, but he was still having trouble controlling him. As the two men rolled off the edge of the bed, Katherine fumbled in the drawer of the bedside stand, frantic that her patient not do himself further damage struggling against her burly nurse. Finally her hand closed around the syringe she’d filled before she went to sleep. She pulled it out, pulled the cap off with her teeth, and plunged it into Reese’s thigh.

“Jesus Christ, who IS this guy?” Jonesie panted as they sat on the floor, staring at Reese’s now limp body.

She was slumped against the bedside table, waiting for the adrenaline rush to start to subside and her heart to stop racing. “Hell if I know.” She took a few deep breaths. “I think it’s time to give Mr. Finch another call. But let’s get him back into bed first.”

Between the two of them, they managed to haul Reese’s limp body back onto the bed. As Tony checked the monitors to see if any of them had gotten damaged, Katherine reinserted the IV line that had pulled out of his arm in the struggle and then changed the dressings so that she could see if he’d pulled any of his stitches.

“So what now, doc?” Jonesie asked once they’d finished their inspections. 

“No idea. But we keep him sedated for a couple of days while I figure that out.” She gingerly touched where the punch had landed.

“So, shall I pick out some restraints for him when I get back to the clinic?”

“Don’t bother. I’ve got a pair in my bag.” Absently, she waved a hand towards her purse on the floor. Something had shaken loose in her memory. “Jonesie, don’t go just yet. I’ll be right back.” When she returned she was holding her iPad in one hand and a bag of frozen peas against her face with the other. She noticed that while she was gone, Nurse Jones had taken the initiative to dig the restraints out of her bag and strap their patient to the bed rails.

“Thanks Jonesie. I’ll take it from here.” She settled into the recliner and started tapping on the tablet. 

“You going to remember to eat?” Jonesie shot her a look. 

“Hmmm? Probably not.” She murmured absently while she flicked her finger across the small screen.

“I didn’t think so.” Jonesie grumbled as he headed out the door. “I’ll be back later. Not that you’ll notice.”

Katherine didn’t hear him, she was too busy searching the files on her tablet. Ever since she was in medical school, she’d kept personal notes on all of her cases. Something about that missing gallbladder was niggling at her. When Reese punched her, she’d suddenly remembered a soldier in Iraq who came out of anesthesia swinging. Had that soldier lost his gallbladder? And had he been one of her patients? Was that why Finch had tried to warn her that Reese could be dangerous? She searched for gallbladder, and found several entries. It took her almost an hour of reading before she found the entry she was looking for. Sergeant Ron Chapman. Injured in a firefight outside of Balad that killed several members of his unit and cost him a gallbladder. Decked the recovery nurse when he came out of the anesthetic. She was sure the same man was now safely sedated in her guest bedroom.

*****

On the third day Nurse Jones arrived with Mr. Finch in tow. At least Tony had the decency to call ahead and warn her so she had time to splash some water on her face and brush her teeth before they arrived. Tony let him into the room, then discreetly disappeared. Katherine hoped he was in the kitchen making coffee. She’d slept next to her patient in the Lay-Z-Boy again.

“So how is our patient today, doctor?” Mr. Finch asked, before catching sight of her black eye. His eyes widened. 

She ignored his reaction, and answered his question with a question of her own. “How much information do you have on our Mr. Reese?”

“Why do you ask?” 

“Because the last time I operated on him, his name was Sergeant Ron Chapman.” Katherine really wanted to know why Finch had told her that her patient’s name was John Reese. 

“You don’t say?” Finch said blandly.

“When I was working on him, I thought I’d seen his insides before. I found the entry in my personal case logs for him. I removed his gallbladder in Iraq. And while I can’t prove it, I’d be willing to bet that the men who removed him from my hospital a week early, without my permission, were CIA. So if the CIA took him then, and they’re looking for him now...” 

“If you’re asking me if Mr. Reese is in the CIA the answer is no.”

She turned to frown at him. “I’d like to remind you about your promise _not_ to lie to your physician.” She knew Finch would never tell her everything she wanted to know; he’d never shared much information about himself. But she did expect whatever he told her to be the truth.

Finch relented. “However the Central Intelligence Agency _is_ his former employer. And they’re rather eager to have him back.” 

“And you don’t want to give him back?”

“No.” 

She thought for a few moments. “What are the chances of them tracing him here?” She didn’t like the idea of the CIA bursting into her home.

“I’m working on leading them away from you. I’ve laid a number of false trails for them to follow up on. You should be safe.”

“But trust no one?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you Mr. Finch.”

“Thank _you_ , Doctor Brooks.” 

*****

The next several days were unclear in Reese’s mind, just bits and pieces of sensation and memory jumbled together.

_Pain. Throbbing. Red. Pain. Everything hurt._

A woman spoke. “Stay with us, Mr. Reese. Stay with us.” He didn’t recognize the voice. “I know you’re a fighter. Stay with us.” A hand grasped his.

_Danger. Pain. Danger._

_Must get away. Hands holding him down. Blackness again._

“Anything else you need, doc?”

“Another pint of AB+. I think I’ll be able to switch him over to fluids after that.”

 _A soothing voice was talking. To him?_ “Pulse is stronger this morning.” _He felt a soft hand against his forehead._ “No fever. Looking good so far, Mr. Reese.”

_Pulse beating. Percussion. Pounding in his temples. Drums?_

_Music again. Cool hands on his forehead. Someone was talking to him. Soothing him. Then oblivion returned._

“Come on, doc, you haven’t left his side in three days.”

“I’m fine, Jonesie. And how did you know I was craving a burger right now?”

“I know you better than you know yourself, doc.”

“Well, I appreciate it.”

“Heh, you’d waste away to nothing if I didn’t feed you woman.” There was rough affection in the voice. “Looks like our friend is coming around.”

“Not yet he isn’t.” _Blackness again._

_Music again. And the same voice talking._

_Pain. Throbbing across his middle with each breath he took._

“Are you waking up again already? We can’t have that. I think you need just a bit more rest.” 

_Ahhhhhh, peace. Blessed relief. Everything dissolving into blackness._


	2. Chapter 2

Reese drifted slowly back to consciousness as the drugs worked their way out of his system. As he swam upwards from the black depths for the umpteenth time in Lord knew how many days, he focused on the pain. He hurt. That meant he was alive. Methodically, he made a mental inventory of his known physical condition, whether he was merely compromised or incapacitated, and his possible location.

Pain across his midsection. That was from where they shot him. He remembered being shot. More pain in his right thigh. The other bullet wound, where they shot him while he was down, before he’d been able to get to cover. They’d tried to kill him. A slight pain or pressure in his left arm. That would be an intravenous drip. His body was angled slightly, his upper body higher than his lower body. He was in a hospital bed. And he was restrained. He could feel two sturdy padded leather cuffs, snug against each of his wrists. He didn’t like that idea. But he had a vague memory of fighting against someone, so maybe he’d earned them. Again.

A toilet flushed. He turned his head towards the sound and heard running water coming from behind a closed door. Where was he?

He glanced around the room, quickly noting details, the way he’d been trained to do. It didn’t look like any hospital he’d ever seen. The walls were decorated with framed artwork, and there were two overloaded bookshelves on either side of the tall, narrow window. The floors were hardwood, and there were decorative moldings around the ceiling and window. He’d guess Victorian row house if it weren’t for the hospital bed, IV stand, and the quiet beeping of medical equipment somewhere behind his head.

“Ah, good morning, Mr. Reese. Good to see you’re finally awake. How are you feeling?”

Standing in the doorway was a woman. Her light brown hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail and she was casually dressed in jeans and a loose sweater that were rumpled as if she’d been sleeping in her clothes.

“Like I was shot and left for dead.” His voice was rougher than usual. Had he been intubated?

She looked concerned. “Are you in any pain?”

He was too busy checking in with his body to answer her. Reese felt better than he expected to waking up after surgery. How long had he been here?

“Not the talkative type, eh? Well, Mr. Finch did say weren’t much for talking. He also said you appreciated honestly.” When had she and Finch had time to talk about him?

While he was pondering that, she crossed the room to the bed, grabbed a handful of blanket and pinched his big toe. It was so unexpected that Reese didn’t have time to hide the small wince as his body reacted. “Good, no nerve damage in the leg.” She seemed pleased by that, and patted his shin. “I won’t lie to you Mr. Reese, it was touch and go for a while there. You lost quite a bit of blood. If your Mr. Finch had been a few minutes slower getting you to us… or if you hadn’t put that tourniquet on your leg...”

She didn’t have to say what the end result would have been. Reese knew. Not something he wanted to dwell on.

“Who are you?” It came out as a croak. Before she answered him she poured some water from a pitcher beside the bed and offered it to him with a straw. She allowed him a few sips before she put the glass down.

“I am Dr. Katherine Brooks.” She crossed her arms, and studied him. He rather thought she was giving him the evil eye. At any rate, the look she was giving him made him feel somewhat like a bug under a magnifying glass. “You probably don’t remember me, but we’ve met before.”

“We have?” She didn’t look familiar, but even if she had, they’d drilled the training into him until it was second nature: don’t divulge unnecessary information. Let the other person do the talking. Only say what is absolutely necessary to keep the conversation going.

“While I was touring your insides, I saw some re-sectioning that looked suspiciously like work that I’ve done before. I’ve had plenty of time while I’ve been sitting with you to go back over my journal and review my private surgical notes.” She waved at the iPad sitting on the table.

He studied her face. Had he seen her before? He imagined her dressed in a t-shirt and baggy desert camo, hair pulled back in a standard-issue military bun, maybe wearing a surgeon’s cap with a mask hanging around her neck. He wasn’t sure, but she might be the doctor that stitched him back together after that clusterfuck of a mission that took half his team. If she was, that meant he was in her debt twice over. It also meant that she already knew too much about him.

“I stitched you up outside of Balad several years ago. I so seldom get the chance, outside of a morgue, to take a second look at work I’ve done. The previous surgery healed up nicely, with minimal scarring. Here’s hoping this recovery goes just as well.”

“Where am I?”

“You are a guest in my home, Mr. Reese.”

“Your home?” She nodded. He looked around the room. Well, that would explain the hardwood floors and the bookshelves. He glanced at the window again. He’d guess from the angle of sunlight, that it was late afternoon. It had been early evening when he was shot. “How long have I been here?”

“I’ve kept you sedated for the past week, but I thought it was time to let you wake up.”

“Past week?” He tried to rise, but she put a firm hand on his shoulder.

“No, please don’t sit up.” Even the gentle pressure she used was more than enough to keep him flat on the bed. He hoped he was just weak from lack of food. If he hadn’t eaten in a week…

“Mr. Finch brought you to me because he _trusts_ me.” She emphasized the word trust. So she knew Finch, and knew how cagey he was. “You’re safe here, Mr. Reese.”

As she leaned over him, he spotted the yellowing remnants of a black eye. It must have been a hell of a shiner a couple of days ago though. Oh shit. It had never been a good idea to startle him when he was asleep, but coming out of anesthetic was the worst. The drugs always gave him nightmares, and he’d decked more than one military nurse while he was in the Army.

He looked sheepish. “Did I…?” he nodded at her face.

“Nice right hook you got there.” She grimaced at him. “But it’s not the first time I’ve taken a punch. Probably won’t be the last, not with the class of patients I usually deal with.”

“Is that why I’m restrained?” He didn’t like being defenseless. And if he was restrained and Snow showed up...

“Partly. Mr. Finch assured me that once you were fully awake and we’d been properly introduced that you could be trusted to keep your fists to yourself.” She seemed to be waiting for a response from him, so he nodded.

“You are not a prisoner Mr. Reese. “ As if she’d read his mind, she started unbuckling the heavy cuff in front of her. “But the bullet nicked your kidney.” She laid her palm gently over the bandage across his middle, not hard enough to cause pain, but just enough pressure to remind him of the wound, before moving the other side of the bed and removing the second restraint. “And I would not be doing my job if I didn’t do everything in my power to make sure you stay here long enough to let your body heal.”

As she freed each hand he flexed it, feeling the blood flow back into his hands. Even with padding, you couldn’t get a good set of restraints tight enough without cutting off a little bit of blood flow. Since his hands weren’t tingling, the doctor had gotten the tension just right. Tight enough to be secure, but not tight enough to cause damage. He flexed his hands one more time, then let them rest on top of the blanket. He’d play the meek patient for now.

“What makes you think I’d leave?” his voice was still rough from disuse.

She chuckled. “Maybe the fact that the first thing you tried to do when you came out of the anesthesia was crawl out of bed.”

“Oh.” He didn’t remember that.

“You are a mystery to me, Mr. Reese. Do you know that you tried to give me your name, rank, and serial number while I still had you sedated? And the name you gave me wasn’t Reese. My surgical notes have you listed as a Sgt. Ron Chapman.” She looked thoughtful. “And then there’s your scar collection.” She leaned over him and traced a professional finger over his left shoulder, naked above the blanket, pausing at the old knife wound, and the more recent scar from when he’d been shot trying to stop a kidnapping. “It’s quite impressive.” He wasn’t sure if she was mocking him or not.

She’d seen evidence of his past life that he usually kept concealed under his clothes. To most people, they’d just be scars. But a doctor would recognize them as knife wounds, bullet holes, surgical scars. How much could she already guess about him from what she could read on his body?

“No need to look so worried. Anything we say here is covered under doctor/patient confidentiality.”

Jesus, was he looking worried? He was usually much better at hiding his thoughts.

“What were you, a SEAL? Ranger? Special Forces?” She nodded, “Special Forces.” Now he wondered what small sign on his face had given that away? This woman was better at reading people than some operatives he’d known. He’d have to be very careful with her. At least until he found out what her connection was to Finch.

“Well, at any rate, you’re clearly not going to indulge my curiosity.” She patted his uninjured thigh below the covers. “You can’t go anywhere until we rustle you up some clothes. Consider your next few days here to be a doctor ordered vacation. I want you to know that you’re _safe_ here. Only Jonesie and Ramirez saw you come in. And my people are paid not to talk. Speaking of our Nurse Jones, I’ll have him give you a sponge bath next time he stops by. I’m sure you’d like to get clean again.” She stood up. “And speaking of clean, I’m way overdue for a shower. So I’ll leave you alone for a bit. I’ll check back in on you once I’m done.” And she closed the door behind her.

He didn’t miss the click of the lock. So she didn’t quite trust him as much as she said she did. Good girl.

*****

As soon as he heard from Dr. Brooks that Reese was conscious, Finch called to check in on him.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Reese?” Finch asked solicitously.

“How do you think I feel, Finch? Like I’ve been shot.” Finch thought Reese sounded a bit peevish.

“You seem out of sorts today. Should I talk to Doctor Brooks about your pain management regime?”

“She kept me sedated for almost a week, Finch. I’d like to talk to Dr. Brooks about how she’s been managing my pain…” Finch could almost hear the growl over the phone.

“That was for your own protection, Mr. Reese.” Finch thought that should have been obvious.

“Who is this Dr. Brooks?”

“Doctor Katherine Brooks is one of the top trauma surgeons in the country.” Finch knew Reese respected competence.

“How do _you_ know her?” Finch smiled to himself. So Reese was fishing to find out if Dr. Brooks was _his_ trauma surgeon. He paused while he considered just how much he wanted to tell Reese. There was silence on the other end of the line as Reese waited patiently.

“Her parents. They were Numbers.” Finch hoped he kept the regret out of his voice. Those early years had been painful, knowing that people were in danger, but not knowing how he could possibly help them.

“When?”

“Years ago. They were some of the first Irrelevants.” He could tell John about her parents at least. “Her father was a federal prosecutor, working on an indictment against several members of the mafia. The Mob arranged a fatal car accident. It killed both of her parents.”

“So how do you know _her_ , Finch?” Reese was back to asking about the doctor. Finch chose his words carefully.

“She runs a clinic in the Bronx that services a large veteran population. She bought the building with the proceeds from her parents’ insurance policy. But eventually she started having trouble funding the day-to-day operating expenses. A mutual friend put us in contact, and I’ve been funding the clinic for several years now. She runs a tight ship. The clinic will never be profitable, but they do excellent work. And it seems like they may come in handy in the future.” The funding was not only philanthropy; it was penance. Finch couldn’t bring Katherine Brooks’ parents back. But he could make sure that the clinic that she’d founded in their memory stayed open. And make sure that their daughter continued to make a difference to the people in her neighborhood.

He’d owed her a debt even before she’d taken him on as a patient. After the accident, he’d needed to disappear. Finch had managed to arrange to “die” during a follow up surgery. But he’d needed somewhere to hide while he recovered. One of his bodyguards had been in the service with Dr. Brooks. He had convinced Dr. Brooks to do him a favor and hide his wealthy employer while he recovered from his injuries. No need to tell Reese about the long months spent in the same bed John was lying in now.

“Get some rest, Mr. Reese. I’ll talk to the doctor about your pain meds.” And Finch hung up the phone.

*****

Reese woke up to find himself alone. Every other time he’d woken over the past several days, Doctor Brooks had been right beside him, watching over him.

He considered that for a moment. He glanced at the bathroom door. It was open. He must be recovering if she’d left his side for longer than the time it took to use the bathroom or fetch something to eat. No, wait, didn’t he remember something about Nurse Jones bringing her food? That meant that she hadn’t left his side at all for the past ten days. But now she’d left him alone.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat up, wincing as the movement strained the stitches holding him together. He knew the doctor would probably want him to stay in bed, but he’d been in bed for days. He hadn’t been farther than the bathroom since he’d regained consciousness. He was restless. And he wanted to know more about where he was. With the way his doctor had been hovering about, he didn’t know when he’d next have a chance to scout out his surroundings.

Because of needing access to the dressings on his leg wound, they’d put him to bed in nothing but boxer-briefs. He wasn’t in the mood to wander around wearing nothing but his underwear. There was a bathrobe draped across the back of the La-Z-Boy the doctor had been sleeping in. He snagged it and was surprised to find that it fit. Had Finch brought him clothes? He checked the closet, but it was empty. The dresser only held the remains of a six pack of briefs. He wondered if they’d been bought for him.

He hobbled over to the bookshelves that lined one entire wall of the room. He remembered when he’d told Finch how to start an investigation. _First, break into their home and go through all their stuff_. Well, he didn’t have to do any breaking, since he was already in. He scanned the titles on the bookshelves. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected to find, but it wasn’t a collection of “men’s fiction.” It looked like she had everything that Tom Clancy had ever written. All of John LeCarre’s books. Ludlum too. He scanned the other titles. _The Perfect Assassin. The Last Spymaster. The Unlikely Spy._ Someone had a thing for espionage thrillers. The next shelf was full of DVDs in slim plastic cases. More of the same: _The Hunt for Red October. Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy. Mission Impossible. The Bourne Identity. Enigma. Salt._

Reese checked in with his body. Was he up for more exploring? His body answered yes, it was time to do something besides lay in bed and feign sleep. Just nothing _too_ strenuous. He hoped that he’d have time to learn the layout of the whole house before his energy ran out. He listened at the door, and didn’t hear anyone in the immediate vicinity. He turned the knob, and was pleased to find it unlocked. He cracked it open. He could hear a voice coming up the stairs. A single voice. Holding a one-sided conversation. Was the doctor on the phone with someone?

He made his way down the hall, moving slowly so that he didn’t make any excess noise with his bad leg. As he passed each door, he cracked it open and looked inside. Next to his room he found another bedroom, probably the doctor’s, as it appeared to be occupied. Then another room, empty of furniture or anything else, except for a yoga mat and blocks on the floor.

He made his way slowly down the stairs, clutching the wide banister as he tried to keep his weight off his aching right leg. On the next floor he found another guest bedroom, a laundry room, and a large study, lined with bookshelves. He noticed a tall gun cabinet in the corner. He could use a weapon if Snow made an appearance. But if the doctor was smart enough to own a gun safe, she was smart enough to make sure it was securely locked. He considered going through the desk drawers, but was afraid if he sat down, his leg might not let him back up. And he didn’t want to get caught rifling the good doctor’s drawers.

He gritted his teeth as he slowly made his way, one step at a time, down the next flight of stairs. His leg was complaining so much that he was having trouble drowning it out. As he took the last few steps, he could clearly hear the conversation.

“He’s making good progress. No signs of infection in either wound. Which is a small miracle, all things considered.”

Reese could see her, reflected in the framed artwork hanging over the dining room table. She was stirring something in the pot on the stove, the kitchen phone cradled against her neck.

“I expect he’ll be strong enough to get out of bed in another day or two. Then it’s usually a couple more weeks while the patient recovers before they can resume normal activities. I’d like to see him resting for at least another month to give things a chance to heal before he resumes any, um, _vigorous_ activities.”

He must have made a noise, because as he stepped around the corner he was staring down the muzzle of a gun. Doctor Brooks had her weapon in a two-handed grip, trained on his head. He knew better than to argue with a woman who had the draw on him. His best option at the moment was to appear non-threatening. Reese let himself slump against the door frame, as if he was exhausted, before he realized that he really _was_ exhausted. Absently he noted the phone receiver skittering across the floor, as the coiled cord contracted. Finch was going to just love this.

“Christ on a cracker!” She tucked the gun into the back of her trousers and rushed to his side. “I should have left you in the restraints.” She muttered as she ducked low and propped herself under his arm. As she took his weight on her, Reese found himself letting out a small sigh of relief. He was not feigning the bone deep exhaustion that had suddenly come over him. “Mr. Reese, why on Earth are you out of bed?” She wrapped both arms around him and steered him to a chair.

His reply was almost plaintive. “I was hungry.” It was only a few steps from the doorway to the dining room table, but she was supporting most of his weight by the time he sat down. Damn, he hated how quickly he was running through his energy reserves the past few days. The doc might have a point about needing more time to recover.

“Well at least that’s a good sign. But if you could have just waited 15 minutes, I would have brought you a tray. If you managed to tear any of your stitches….” She left the threat hanging.

“Is everything alright, Miss Brooks?” Finch’s voice was loud enough to carry all the way to Reese’s sharp ears.

Doctor Brooks caught at the cord of the phone she’d dropped on the floor and reeled in the receiver.

“Mr. Finch? Are you still there? I’m sorry about that…Our patient went walkabout a couple of days earlier than expected.”

Reese could just imagine Finch saying, “Let me talk to him.”

She held the phone out to him. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Of course he does.” Reese accepted the phone meekly.

“Mr. Reese, am I to understand that you are not in your bed, resting as you’ve been ordered?” Finch’s voice had that same disapproving tone he used when he caught Reese using his computer.

“Yes.” Reese liked to make Finch work for his information.

“Where are you?”

“The kitchen.”

“Mr. Reese, I want to be very clear. You are to follow Dr. Brook’s orders. To. The. Letter.”

“Or what, Finch?” He couldn’t resist teasing his employer.

The answer was cold. “Or I will tell Agent Snow exactly where to find you. And leave you to his tender mercies.” Finch must really be pissed at him. Time for a tactical withdrawal.

“Understood.” He wasn’t agreeing to behave. Reese was just letting Finch know that he’d heard the warning. “Anything else?”

Finch’s voice was soft, “Just get well, Mr. Reese.” And Finch ended the call.

Reese handed the phone back to the doctor, aware that she’d been studying him. He was sure the doctor noticed every tell that spoke to his fatigue: how his hands were in his lap instead of on the table and he was leaning back against the chair instead of sitting tall. But quite frankly, he was too tired to care at the moment.

“Well, since you’re here, I might as well feed you before we try to get you back up to bed.”

Reese watched Dr. Brooks bustle around the kitchen, ladling soup into bowls and cutting thick slices off a crusty loaf of bread. “Juice or milk?” She asked, holding up two cartons. “And before you even ask, you’re not allowed coffee yet.”

“Milk.”

As she placed a bowl of soup in front of him she said, “Mr. Reese, I suspect that the reason you’re out of bed was to get the lay of the land. But I want to assure you, Mr. Finch personally approved the security system on this house. You’re perfectly safe here. Nurse Jones and I are the only two people who have the keys.” Finch approved the security system? Well, if there was one thing he could trust, it was Finch’s paranoia.

Nurse Jones huh? Well, that was as good an opening conversational gambit as any. “So what’s the story with you and Nurse Jones? You two an item?”

His question was greeted with a bark of laughter. “Tony? Hell no. He’s like family to me. Besides, his wife Paula would kill me if I ever messed around with her man. Tony’s my best friend.”

“That’s all?” He raised an eyebrow at her. He was sure there was something more. He thought for a moment, then remembered a snatch of overheard conversation:

_“Come on doc, you haven’t left his side in three days."_   
_“I’m fine Jonesie. And how did you know I was craving a burger right now?”_   
_“I know you better than you know yourself doc.”_

“Didn’t I hear something about him knowing you better than you know yourself?”

“You heard that huh?” she stirred her soup for a moment. “Yeah, he does know me better than I know myself sometimes.” She looked thoughtful, as if she was remembering something.

Reese waited patiently. She wanted to talk about it, he could tell. Instead she drained her drink, then got up and refilled the glass. When she returned to her seat, he cocked his head, to let her know he was listening.

“I’m not proud of it. But I own my mistakes. Years ago, when I was just getting started, it seemed like there was always more work to be done than time to do it in. I wanted to be the best. And the way to be the best is to work harder than anyone else. So I worked hard. Really hard. When I wanted to work even harder, I started taking amphetamines. I thought I could handle it. I thought I was in control. But I wasn’t. I was out of control. The speed was in control.

Tony was the first person to notice something was wrong. He knew I was in trouble before I was ready to admit it to myself. He forced me to face the truth. He pushed me into treatment. And he supported me while I tried to pull myself together.”

“Sounds like a good friend.”

“Yeah. He got me clean. Then he watched me like a hawk for months, to make sure I didn’t backslide. And he’s kept me clean for the past four years. The keys are part of our deal. If he thinks, for any reason, that I’m using again, he’s got permission to come toss my place looking for my stash. I think he actually _does_ snoop through my medicine cabinet every couple of months, just as a matter of principal.”

“You trust him.” It wasn’t a question.

“With my life.”

Sensing things were getting a little heavy, Reese steered the conversation back towards shallower waters. He praised her cooking. Found out which bakery the bread came from. Then asked for seconds.

As she placed the second bowl of soup in front of him, Reese asked casually, “So how do you know Finch?” He’d had so much success with his first probe, he figured it was time to try another. If he was lucky, he might learn something new about his mysterious employer.

“I’m afraid that falls under the category of doctor/patient confidentiality.” She shut down that avenue of questioning, but he wondered if she realized that she’d just revealed that Finch was her patient? He considered his options, and decided if he couldn’t get her to talk about Finch, he might as well go back to gathering intel about his doctor.

“Why the gun?”

“You’re a wanted man Mr. Reese.” She watched him closely. Reese returned her stare, his face unreadable. How much did she know? How much had Finch told her? “When Mr. Finch brought you to me, it seemed prudent to assume that someone was looking for you. The local medical grapevine says the authorities have been asking questions at all the local hospitals, looking for a tall man in a suit. While that could be anyone, I suspect they’re looking for _you_. They must want you pretty badly, Jonesie caught one of our local undercover officers rifling through our dumpster.” She caught the sharp glance he sent her way. “There wasn’t anything for him to find. We have our own onsite incinerator.” Finch really had thought of everything.

“You handle that gun like you know what to do with it.” In fact, she’d handled her weapon like it was an extension of her body. Reese was relieved to know that the doctor could take care of herself. Especially since he wasn’t in the shape to be doing any protecting just at the moment.

“I’m a Marine.” He raised his eyebrows. That was impressive. He noted that she used the present tense. He always thought it was funny how leathernecks didn’t believe there was such a thing as an ex-Marine.

“Hooah.” He murmured the Army salutation, testing her.

“Oorah.” She corrected him absently, picking up her spoon. “And Mr. Finch tells me _you’re_ ex-CIA. So let’s leave off compiling a dossier on me until after we’ve finished eating, shall we? You’ll have plenty of time to get to know me better while you recover. ” She shot a knowing look at him. So the doctor suspected he’d been snooping before he came downstairs.

Reese had to admit, Finch had chosen well when he left him in Dr. Brooks’ care. Until Reese was back on his feet he was vulnerable. Very vulnerable. Leaving him with an ex-military trauma surgeon who knew how to handle a gun? Reese had to admire Finch’s deviousness. Even on short notice, that man could plan.

*****

As they ate in silence, she studied him across the table. Despite the fact that he’d been in her house over a week, he’d been either sedated or asleep for most of that time. Patients always looked different when they were finally vertical. She considered his face. His ears were just slightly too big. She suspected he must have looked a bit goofy during basic training with the standard issue shaved head. His hair was still military-issue short, with just a touch of grey around his temples. Gave him the look of a distinguished businessman. The nose was strong, with a little bump at the bridge. With those grey-blue eyes and rather impressively chiseled cheekbones, she suspected he might even qualify as handsome, especially if he ever smiled. She wondered what he’d look like if he smiled. She suspected that he could be charming if he chose to. Now that he was conscious, she’d have to watch for that charm. She was sure he’d try to use it to get back in the field sooner than he ought to. They always did.

Working with veterans as often as she did, she recognized a wounded warrior when she saw one. She suspected that Finch knew about her quiet campaign to heal the steady stream of vets with drug and alcohol problems or PTSD who found their way to the clinic. She didn’t think it was a coincidence that Finch had brought this man to her. With Finch’s money, he could have gone to any number of private clinics and paid to hush up the fact that he’d been there. No, Finch had brought this man to her. And that meant this man probably needed more than just her surgical skills.

Katherine wasn’t just a doctor, she considered herself a healer in the holistic sense. She knew that not all wounds are physical or visible. And that a patient’s ability to heal often had as much to do with their mental, emotional, and spiritual health as it did their physical health. If Finch had brought this man to her, it was because he needed healing. So she studied him across her kitchen table and considered just what he might need to make him whole again.

Other than the gunshot wounds, he looked healthy enough. When he’d arrived he’d been clean, well groomed. So she didn’t think drugs. Besides, he’d have been suffering from withdrawal long before now if he was using. From what she’d seen of his liver, there had been drinking, hard drinking, in his past. But he didn’t have the look of a drunk now. He was too healthy to have been getting the bulk of his calories from alcohol.

If he was CIA, there’d be emotional trauma. There always was. You couldn’t be a stone cold killer and not bear terrible emotional scars. Not unless you were a sociopath. And she couldn’t see Mr. Finch dropping off a sociopath at her door. No, there’d definitely be emotional trauma somewhere in his background. And he’d be trained to hide it from her. She’d heard from her friends in Psych that the grunts _always_ lied to their shrinks. And the Special Forces types were the worst, intent on charming their way back into the field without dealing with the issues that had gotten them assigned to Psych in the first place. Healing this man might turn out to be a challenge. She hoped she was up to it.

*****

When they’d finished their meal, the doctor cleared the table, then helped Reese to his feet. Although the food had helped, Reese found it was a struggle not to lean too heavily against her. He hoped he’d make it back up the two flights of stairs. He almost signed in relief when, as they approached the stairs, she slid the paneling aside, and revealed a cleverly concealed elevator. It was narrow, but Reese estimated it was deep enough to hold a gurney with room for one or two additional passengers. So _that_ was how they’d gotten him up to the third floor the night he arrived.

She helped him back to his room and back into the bed. As she adjusted it so that he was sitting up, he glanced around the room, wondering where Finch had hidden the cameras. He didn’t know why he hadn’t thought to look before. Because if they were talking about Finch, of course there would be cameras. There was a row of dolls and stuffed animals on the top shelf, watching them. Reese was sure one of them was also Finch watching them.

“Let’s check those dressings.” She pulled a few things from a cabinet and laid them out on the bedside table, then went into the bathroom and he could hear the sounds of running water. When she came out, she was drying her hands. “I know your training says to trust no one. But lying to me could have a seriously adverse effect on your treatment and recovery, Mr. Reese.”

She stood looking down at him, “Do _not_ lie to your doctor.” She gave him a look that he was sure she must have learned from a Marine drill instructor. “I want you to know if any of this causes you pain. On a scale of one to five, with one being uncomfortable and five being total agony.” She slipped a hand under his knee and pushed against his shin, helping him bend his injured leg. “Does that hurt, Mr. Reese?”

“Zero.” He said, even though the pain was really around a one.

She carefully removed the dressings from his leg, inspected the stitches, then carefully probed the wound. “And this?”

“One.”

“How about this?” And she pushed her fingers hard into the wound.

He glared at her, and moved his hand to his stomach, out of sight of Finch’s sneaky little doll camera and flashed three fingers at her. “Two.” He flicked his eyes towards the row of dolls watching them.

Her eyebrows shot up. “I see.” She gave a tiny nod, “You have a remarkably high pain tolerance, Mr. Reese. That must come in handy in your line of work.” There was that drill instructor look again. She disapproved of him lying to Finch. She was silent, lips pursed, as she slathered his stitches with ointment and taped gauze pads over the entry and exit wounds.

She lowered the bed so that he was lying flat again, and carefully worked the tape free from his belly. She pressed on the opposite side from where he’d been shot.

“Zero.”

“And here?” She moved a little to the left.

“One.”

She continued to press, moving her fingers across his abdomen, moving slowly towards where the bullet had torn into his right side.

“One.” On the sheets he flashed two fingers.

“One.” Again, two fingers on the sheets. She wasn’t using nearly as much pressure as she’d used on his leg, but the pain was worse.

“And here?” She prodded again, gently this time.

“Two.” There were three fingers on the sheet.

She shifted until he couldn’t see the row of dolls anymore. He hoped that meant that Finch couldn’t see him either. Then she pressed carefully right where he’d been shot. Pain blossomed across his entire middle, and he grabbed a handful of sheet as his vision blurred around the edges.

“Three.” He managed to keep his voice calm. She wasn’t _trying_ to torture him, and he’d endured far worse pain at the hands of people who _had_ wanted to make him hurt.

“Alrighty then,” her calm voice didn’t betray the fact that she’d seen the four fingers he’d flashed once he’d been able to force his hand to release their grip on the sheets. “It doesn’t look like you’ve done yourself any harm walking about, Mr. Reese, but I’d like to give you something to make you more comfortable.”

She pulled out a vial and a needle, and let him read the label before she pulled 10cc of fluid into the syringe. When she glanced over at him, he shook his head. He’d already spent a week sedated. He didn’t want any more drugs in his system.

She tapped the needle, then depressed the plunger to remove any air bubbles. When she was done, there were only 5cc left in the syringe. She glanced over to see if he approved. He nodded. That should be enough to take the edge off the pain, but not enough to blur his thinking.

She resumed talking while she injected the drug. “Now when I say I want you to stay here another week, I mean in this room, preferably in this bed. No unauthorized wandering around, _capiche_?”

He nodded.

“And I want you to leave the I.V. in until I take it out. You’ve lost more blood than you might realize, and I want more fluids in you.” She quickly swabbed his arm and reinserted the needle he’d ripped out before he’d gone walkabout. She tidied up her supplies, and tucked the blanket back around him and handed him the remote. “Can I get you a book? Newspaper or magazine?” He shook his head no. Distraction wasn’t what he needed right now.

She stopped at the door and looked back at him. She considered for a moment, then unclipped the holster at the back of her belt and tossed it to him. He caught it neatly and looked a question at her. “What’s this?”

“I suspect you’ll feel more secure with a weapon, Mr. Reese.” And she turned and left the room.

As he checked how many rounds were in the clip and tucked the weapon under his pillow, Reese reflected that Dr. Brooks had indeed given him something that made him more comfortable.

*****

There was a polite knock on the door. “Enter.”

Dr. Brooks’ dark head poked around the door, “Good morning.” She let herself into the room, holding up a garment bag and a pair of crutches. “I called Mr. Finch this morning. He dropped by, but you were sleeping. He brought some clothes for you.”

Reese swung his feet over the side of the bed and sat up. He hoped the doctor didn’t notice his slight hesitation, but his middle was still tender. “Does that mean I’m cleared to go?” He made sure that the face he turned to her showed no signs of pain. He’d been itching to do something for the past several days. He knew he wasn’t in any shape to get back to work yet, but the enforced inactivity of recovery always made him restless.

“That means I think I’ve kept you as long as you’re going to let me. And I’d rather you not sneak out of my house in pajamas and a bathrobe. The neighbors might talk.” She gave him an impish grin that let him think she might not mind so much making the neighbors talk.

She leaned the crutches against the wall, then draped the garment bag over the back of the chair next to the bed. “But before you go anywhere, let’s see about getting those sutures out.” And she pulled supplies out of the bedside stand.

When the doctor disappeared into the bathroom to wash her hands, Reese unzipped the garment bag and examined the contents. There was a black suit and white shirt, and in the bottom of the bag a pair of shoes and socks. They weren’t brand new, everything looked to have been lightly worn. Reese checked the labels. They were not only his size, but they were brands that he knew he owned. Had Finch tracked down his latest hotel and raided his closet? That sneaky little bastard. Reese smiled to himself. At least he knew everything would fit.

“Alright, Mr. Reese, if you’d strip down to your skivvies please?” She pulled on a pair of gloves while he shucked off his pajama bottoms. “On your stomach if you would. We’ll start with the leg.” She peeled off the bandage on the exit wound, “You’re healing nicely, but I’m afraid you’re probably going to have a couple more scars to add to your collection.” He felt the slight tug as she pulled each suture from his skin. “I’d like you to stay off the leg for a couple more days. Use the crutches.” She swabbed his leg with something, then taped a fresh bandage over the wound. “Flip please.”

As the doctor was removing the sutures from his thigh, Reese suddenly realized just how much he’d recovered in the past couple of days, as his body responded to her gentle touch. Damn. Now was _not_ the time to be feeling quite so…. healthy. Yes, it had been way too long since a woman had had her hands on his naked thigh. And one of her hands was resting dangerously close to his groin. Reese set his jaw and stared at the ceiling.

“Am I hurting you, Mr. Reese?” She asked, as she tugged gently at a suture.

“Tickles a bit.” He tried to keep his voice casual. What was it they said, close your eyes and think of England? Reese started mentally rehearsing the steps for field stripping and cleaning an M-16. By the time the doctor was finished bandaging his abdomen, he’d mentally stripped and cleaned both an M24 and an M107 sniper rifle. And he’d managed to make it through the removal of the last of his stitches without embarrassing himself. Next time Finch would need to find him an old, ugly _male_ doctor.

“I want to see you in a week or so for a follow up. You can stop by the clinic. Mr. Finch can give you the address.” She pulled off the gloves and tossed them in the wastebasket. “Looks like your circulation is just fine, nothing to worry about there.” She had her back to him, so he couldn’t tell if she was teasing him or not.

“Mr. Finch has left his car to wait for you, so I assume that means he wants you back ASAP.” And she closed the door behind her.

*****

She thought he’d stop into the kitchen to say good-bye. She hadn’t even heard him come down the stairs. She heard the click when the front door closed, but by the time she got to the window, he had already disappeared into the town car and the driver was closing the car door. “Best of luck, Mr. Reese.” She whispered as she watched them pull away from the curb.

When she went upstairs she found the bed neatly made, with hospital corners so tight they would have made her Marine gunny proud. In the center of the bed her holstered gun sat centered on the neatly folded bathrobe.

Doctor Brooks knew without even trying that if she dialed the number Mr. Finch had given her, it would be disconnected.

***Fin***


End file.
